Epilogue
Observe.
Four figures in a landscape.
Four lovers: Concubine, Harlot, Artificer, Warrior. Their story is not over, not yet, but we must leave them for a little while, and this is as good a time and place as any to bid them farewell.
And if, as we depart, we were to follow the longstrider’s tracks back in the direction from whence that creature came…
(We cannot, of course; not here amid the Vents of Yttar, where the plasmatic winds efface any footprints almost as soon as they are made.)
…but if we could, if we could, then perhaps, after a short distance, we might come upon a solitary figure hurrying away from us, his dark robes fluttering softly in the breeze, his hooded face hidden by shadows so deep only the twin embers of his eyes remain visible within.
And perhaps, as we watch, this lone figure might climb the slope of one of the larger vents, pausing briefly upon the rim to peer back in the direction of the four travelers, and the gift he delivered to them.
Then, without the slightest warning or hesitation, he turns and jumps, falling silently into the smoking depths of the planet below, leaving nothing behind to mark his passage, save for a few swiftly fading footprints, and a faint flavor of dreamweed upon the wind.
Fate. That is the word the Hassaith used. It is not the right word. Not quite.
But it is close.